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Saving Fish from Drowning - Heal Burma

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AMY TAN<br />

mother, whose children had already been shot, who never looked<br />

away as the mouth of the gun rose to her mouth. A young man who<br />

could have jumped on a truck taking the others to safety, but instead<br />

went back in the direction where his sweetheart had been captured<br />

by the army. A grandfather who refused to leave his burning home. A<br />

sister, only twelve years old, dragged by six soldiers into the hidden<br />

parts of the forest, where she screamed, then stopped, screamed then<br />

stopped, until the rifle shot came and she made no sounds forever­<br />

more. She was brave. They all were brave. Those now listening would<br />

try to be brave.<br />

When it was close to dusk, the old grandmothers brought out the<br />

red singing shawls they had repaired that morning. They had<br />

threaded the iridescent mantles of one hundred emerald beetles onto<br />

the long rope fringes, twenty carapaces on each string, knotted off<br />

with a small brass bell at the end. Their granddaughters carried out<br />

fifty-three blankets and placed them on the mats to air. The married<br />

women brought forth the best of their now tattered clothes, so that<br />

they might show their sisters the secret weave and knot they had<br />

carefully guarded as their own. No need for secrets now. The grand­<br />

mothers hung the singing shawls on the arms of trees, since the un­<br />

married girls would not be there to wear them and mourn. Soon they<br />

would put on these best clothes, and fifty-three people, young and<br />

old, would each lie on top of a blanket and roll into a cocoon. They<br />

would have already eaten the poison mushrooms the twins had<br />

found. They would wriggle and writhe like moths bursting against<br />

their sacks. The fringe of the blankets would brush their unfeeling<br />

faces, a sign that sleep this time had no end. And when their breath<br />

was the departing breeze, the emerald wings would flap and fly,<br />

sounding the bells and singing to the dead, “Go home, go home.”<br />

Loot stood and picked up a bowl of food made with the last of the<br />

hoarded spices. The food was passed around the circle, with all tak­<br />

ing a pinch, so they could give offerings. Loot cried out: To the Nats,<br />

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